Fell Winter
by Zoop
Summary: Of Cabbages & Kings Forum Challenge: Holiday Story! My offering for this year is the found journal of an exceptional Hobbit lass who ventured forth from hearth and home in the Fell Winter of 1311 Shire Reckoning (2911 Third Age) and had herself a proper adventure, replete with danger, mishaps, friendship, and puppies. Because it's Yuletide; there have to be puppies. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

**FELL WINTER**

**A/N:** This is a bit of a departure for me, in that unlike last year's holiday offering, I don't plan on killing the principle characters at the end. :D In answer to the _Of Cabbages and Kings_ forum's seasonal story challenge, I offer this little nugget from my plot bunny hutch.

For those unfamiliar with the _Lord of the Rings_ fandom, we're in the Shire, a week has passed since the chief villain's henchmen (Ringwraiths, or _Nazg__û__l_) have simultaneously attacked our hero's abandoned home and, forty miles distant, hotel room (they get around, those henchmen). At least, that's where we are _now_. We won't be staying here. Read on...

* * *

_Evening, 16 Winterfilth 1418 Shire Reckoning [7 October 3018 Third Age]_

"It'll come to no good, mark my words," Gaffer Grubb declared in the smoky Green Dragon's common room. Sensing a tale heard many times but longed for again in these chill winter days, Hobbits young and old pricked their ears or scooted closer to the old farmer.

The old Hobbit puffed his chest smugly, pleased that he had their attention.

"Not since the Fell Winter have we heard that Buckland horn," he went on, scratching idly at a dry patch of skin below his left ear. His grand-niece was always after him with creams when the weather turned, as though she had no notion of an old man's need to scratch. The shrieking wind and rattling shutters put him more in mind of the Fell Winter of 1311 than anything those odd Bucklanders got up to, though he wasn't even a twinkling in his father's eye back then.

"That were a week past," the miller's apprentice pointed out, and several curly heads bobbed in agreement. "Ain't nothin' come of it yet."

"It'll have to do with that Baggins business, I've no doubt," the Gaffer said, casting a sour look at the lad. He wasn't too keen on Ted Sandyman, nor the cheeky boys he hired down at the mill. "Them Bagginses are more Tookish than they lets on, takin' up with that no-good conjurer and what-have-you. Why, it were after that bad winter, when the wolves come across the Brandywine, that some lads and lasses just like you up and wandered off on 'adventures.' And who was flittin' about, fillin' every young wooly-headed rascal with fanciful tales? Why, Gandalf was, I'll be bound. You'll recall he was behind old Bilbo's disappearance over yonder in Hobbiton, like as not. _Both_ times the queer old gent took off. Probably turn up as the culprit again, now young Mister Frodo's gone out to Buckland. And _now_ the horn's gone and blown." He nodded knowingly. "That old goat's involved somehow, or my name's not Boso Grubb."

"But he were helpin' us, weren't he, was Gandalf?" the lad questioned, a little unsure. "Leastways, 'at's what my dad's sayin'. Him and some Big Folk brought food back 'en and..."

"Don't mention the missin' young'uns, do he, your dad, eh?" Gaffer Grubb snapped, quelling the upstart's further challenges with a beady-eyed look.

"Weren't one of the lasses gone missing one'uh yer kin, Gaffer?" a more helpful youth supplied.

"Aye, that she was," the old Hobbit nodded with satisfaction, settling back in his chair and seeing to the repacking of his pipe. The sweet smell of Old Toby wafted briefly from his pipeweed pouch before the other smells of the common room overwhelmed it. "Old Petunia Grubb, her name was. Well, she weren't old then," he chuckled. "Barely past her tweens when that Gandalf got his hooks into her with his talk of faraway places and battles and kings. Nonsense talk's what it was."

Pausing for a long moment to carefully light his pipe, Gaffer Grubb surreptitiously scanned his audience from beneath his eyelashes. Young, they were. Heads full of cotton if they thought the lands beyond the Shire held anything but danger and discomfort for an innocent lad or lass. Better they be reminded the truth of it, then.

"Had it from my dad, Corbus, that our fair Petunia thought highly of that Mister Gandalf person, and listened to all his tales with her eyes all wide and shinin'," Grubb began. He paused again to puff his pipe and blow a smoke ring. "Corbus being her elder brother by five years, you recall. Why, he told me she snuck clean out the hole in the middle night with his best pair of woolens!"

"Oh ho ho!" Fredacar Longbottom guffawed, slapping the tabletop with his palm. "How long he hold'at grudge fer his lost drawers, eh?" The listeners erupted in appreciative laughter with the farmer.

"Never you mind," Grubb snapped.

"Now now, don't take offense," Longbottom chortled. "Ain't yer family's fault some'uh that Fallohidish blood found its way to yer auntie. We all got our worrisome relations, and no mistake." Winking, he took a long pull off his tankard. "Leastways, yer da kept his trousers, didn't he? Lass didn't run off with _them_, did she?"

Casting a sour look at his neighbor and chief rival in the pipeweed market, Grubb grumbled, as all knew he would, "Aye, she did. Cleaned out his closet, leavin' her dresses in their place."

Longbottom nodded sagely, endeavoring to keep a straight face. "Didn't leave'im nekkid in that cold, cold winter, then. Good lass."

Glaring at the farmer and shifting purposefully to draw attention back to his tale, Grubb went on, "Anyways, our Petunia did like those tales of old Gandalf, but she thought they was lackin' in a lady's presence, so it's said. Not enough girls in'em, you see. So one day, not long after the early thaw put an end to anything nasty crossin' the Brandywine, let alone them awful wolves, she decided she'd put on her knapsack, fetch her a sturdy walkin' stick, and see about writin' her own adventure."

Gaffer Grubb shook his head. "Last anybody here saw of her, was that curly head of hers disappearin' over the Brandywine Bridge. Stayed a night in Brandy Hall, they say, then off into the sunrise the next morn."

"She go to Bree at all?" a lad who'd undoubtedly heard the tale many times before prompted.

"Why, indeed she did," the Gaffer beamed appreciatively. "We heard rumors of her makin' it as far as the Prancing Pony, then she just... _vanished,_" he whispered dramatically. Leaning forward, looking at each pair of appropriately shocked eyes in turn, he added, "One day she was there, then the next..." Grubb shook his head. "That's the last any of _them_ seen her, either."

Sitting back once more, he nodded and idly puffed his pipe. "Young lass alone, wanderin' about with naught but a stick... That's what comes of gettin' them fanciful ideas, you know. If she had any adventure worth talkin' of, ain't nobody ever heard it."

* * *

_A/N: Or did they? ;) To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_The journal was tucked away, hidden among piles of scrolls and other odds and ends from generations of librarians clearly keen to preserve it, so long as it went unnoticed. Faramir, newly appointed Steward of Gondor, was likely the first person in a century to poke about in this particular collection, but recent events* urged the investigation. How did one negotiate with such people? Was there legal precedent for dealing with them? He had no idea; Gandalf's tutelage had urged mercy when such was begged, not equal consideration under the law. Had Gondor, at any point in her history, engaged in successful and legitimate commerce with Orc-kind?_

_Travel-stained and worn, the hand-penned text fading with age, the journal caught the Steward's eye for its oddness. Upon the cover was embossed a shield of peculiar making; Faramir almost thought it misfiled. But it was the date on the first page that leapt to his attention, and while his suspicions of a mislaid diary were not allayed, fond recollections of folk who also invoked the name 'Shire' came to mind._

_The writing began in comfortably bold letters, but as he carefully turned page after page, the entries were more cramped, the lettering smaller, as though the author realized the limited space remaining in the little book. Regardless, only a few entries were necessary to intrigue him enough to explore further. Perhaps not a tale of civil relations between Orcs and Men, so he assumed, but engaging for its novelty nonetheless. He soon realized, however, that it was precisely what he was looking for, and set about transcribing the dim lettering and converting the dates._

* * *

_From Faramir's transcription:_

_Brandy Hall, 13 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [3 February 2912 Third Age]_

Freedom is at last my travel companion as I embark on what my folk would call 'an adventure' with shocked whispers and haughty distaste. What rubbish. Long have I sat at Gandalf's knee, avidly listening to his wondrous tales, eagerly applauding his fantastical fireworks, and longing for this day, the day of my liberation. What a bother that I was delayed until well after my parents had declared the crisis 'over.'

Not over by a long mile, and I'm not the only one who thinks so. Gandalf has been around the past month, as have been many Big Folk supplying us with food, for the winter was uncommon harsh this year. The gaffers go on and on about _the Long Winter_ and its depradations, yet none were here in those days. Like as not, they'll be crowing about this one for years to come.

But I suppose I make light of a dreadful situation, in hindsight. The Brandywine froze, and we were beset by white wolves. They were cunning and fierce, yet how different were they from any other animal so aggrieved by want? Who provided _them_ with food, I wonder? Why, us, alas. Our hunters and trappers scoured the Woody End for any beast, large or small, unwise enough to poke its nose from a burrow, so who are we to condemn the wolves who did the same? They are animals, and that is what animals do. I hold no grudge against them.

It is past now, and I wish to look ahead. I have cut a sturdy walking stick and packed my knapsack with what provisions I was able to secure without doing harm to my fellow Hobbits in Bywater. I imagine, once my absence is noted, my eldest brother Tom will be most chagrined that he ever taught me woodlore! You never thought I'd use it, did you? Equally vexed, no doubt, will be that pustule brother of mine, Corbus, who has personally seen to my torments since birth. To him, I bequeathed all my best dresses. May he wear them proudly, for 'tis all I left him with.

Now then. Proper introductions, dearest diary. I am Petunia Grubb, so named because that is what was in full bloom upon my birthing day. Little wonder, then, that my favorite flower is a begonia. My slightly elder brothers had difficulties with such a complicated name as Petunia, and so bestowed 'Una' upon me. I have preferred that name over my given one for its disassociation with the hated bloom.

I am the youngest child of seven, and only daughter, of Nordbert and Adda Grubb, residents of Bywater, West Farthing of the Shire. My brothers are, in order of eldest to youngest, Tom, Dodric, Bando, Wilred, Padric and Corbus. I'm certain to mention them from time to time, for some have given wise advice and are kind, while others are plagues upon the land and should be punished vigorously. You know who you are, Pox and Box.

I plan to set forth on the morrow, departing the smials at Brandy Hall and heading out the East Road. I have it on good authority from the Brandybucks here that the mead in Bree is not to be missed, so I'm bound for the Prancing Pony. I've little enough pocket money, but perhaps there are chores needing doing along the way that may provide me with means when needed. Otherwise, Tom was foolishly thorough in his teachings, so I might live somewhat comfortably off the land even in rough country.

I consider myself a sturdy Hobbit; I shouldn't have trouble managing on a curbed diet of only four or five meals a day, surely.

* * *

* This story is within the _Out of All Proportions_ universe, though it predates the War of the Ring and thus the activities described in _Misfire_, _Hookup_, et al. The 'event' Faramir alludes to is briefly mentioned in another fic of the series, _Reconciliation of Mammoth Proportions_, and is intended for more detailed description in its own fic yet to be written. In brief, an Orc of Mordor has emerged in the months following the end of the War suing for peace with Men on behalf of Orc-kind. Needless to say, that one'll be very AU. :)

**A/N:** For those who aren't 'date obsessed' in LOTR, for context, the events of _The Hobbit_ begin in 2941 Third Age, and Frodo takes off on his whirlwind adventure in 3018 Third Age. _Misfire_ begins, as the initial chapter indicates, in 3019.


	3. Chapter 3

_East Road, 15 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [5 February 2912 Third Age]_

'Tis slow going, I'm afraid. The wind off the fields north of the road seems to find every tiny gap in my garments, no matter how many layers stand between. I've gone through near half my rations already, and barely covered three leagues afoot.

Plenty of time for thinking, all this trudging along. I marched out the hole without a purpose in mind, but now I believe I've found it: I shall retrace the steps of my forebears.

Now, it's nigh heretical to claim descendence from Fallohides among my kin, as though that little affair aways back on my mother's side never happened. I, for one, am very glad it did, or I shouldn't be so welcomed in Brandy Hall as I was. They tend to tap the better barrel for kin, you see.

I have it from the records at Michel Delving that the Fallohides came from the north, crossing the Misty Mountains and traveling down the Hoarwell to this very road. I believe that is my way: down the East Road, north along the Hoarwell, and then I'll see how I shall get over the mountains.

This wind is a terrific bother. I think I will write again when I've reached the Prancing Pony and can put my feet up. A good strong ale and a warm hearth are what's needed.


	4. Chapter 4

_Prancing Pony, 18 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [8 February 2912 Third Age]_

At last! My goodness, what a bitter winter! I have been plagued by heavy snowfall the past day and a half. The wind is relentless, even at this time of year. It would seem the early thaw we enjoyed back in the Shire did not extend east of the Brandywine.

Nevertheless, I am comfortably ensconced in the Prancing Pony, a most worthy establishment run by the esteemed Orbrun Butterbur. He has seen to my comforts with a Hobbit-sized room on the ground floor, complete with a cozy parlor and comfortable bedroom. I think I shall stay here a few days; there are several local Hobbits whose company I've been invited to join. Not a few of them are well-traveled in this area, and have promised to aid me in my quest.

There are a good many Big Folk here in Bree, which at first is a little off-putting. I shall develop a sore neck from so much peering upward. A few go about cloaked and hooded in dark greens and browns, and Mr. Butterbur appears suspicious of them. He calls them 'Rangers' and advises I should give them a wide berth.

Perhaps a stodgy Chubb or Bracegirdle might nod cheerfully and heed his warning, but what is the use of that? I resolve to corner and question the first unkempt, travel-stained Ranger I see, for only one who has spent a goodly amount of time tramping about in the wilds could look quite as rough-shod as that! I contend that such experience will help more than hinder me, so I shall avail myself of their wisdom.

At the moment, however, I am quite done in. After several days on shorter and shorter rations - reduced to merely three meals a day, and scant ones at that - I am quite full to bursting from amending that shortfall. I will join my new friends on the morrow.


	5. Chapter 5

_Prancing Pony, 19 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [9 February 2912 Third Age]_

What a day! I spent the morning at breakfast, and well past elevensies, with a Mr. Brockhouse from right here in Bree. He has kin in the Shire, though I'd not met any of them before. Evidently, they're in the North Farthing up Brockenborings way, and don't get down to Bywater much. Nevertheless, Mr. Brockhouse also has family in Combe just east of Bree, and has promised to tell them of me in case I pass through on my way east.

Mr. Brockhouse also knew quite a bit about the lands surrounding Bree, and most especially eastward all the way to Weathertop. He advised me to visit that storied place, from whence I may gaze all about the lands and perchance catch sight of the Hoarwell, if the sky is clear enough. I very much doubt I could; we are receiving another fair burial of snow today as well, and all who duck inside the Pony have borne the leavings as epaulets, cloaks, and hoods about their persons. There is much stamping and swearing in the foyer, and Mr. Butterbur's servants are constantly sweeping out the snow.

Most importantly, though, my new friend had some knowledge of the Fallohides and their migrations toward the Shire. It seems that my understanding is confirmed by his own studies, in that my people crossed the mountains and traveled down the Hoarwell. He also claimed that the bold and brash nature of the Fallohides ensured they were more often leaders of their squeamish and timid cousins than not. How often have I been in the same position, assuming the reins among my fellows because no one else would take them? I feel even more Fallohidish with every moment!

Late in the afternoon, one of those Ranger fellows wandered in, and once he'd tucked into his meal and had a few sips of his ale, I approached him. An unexpectedly warm and kind-seeming Man, I must say. He calls himself Colbaran. He invited me to sit and asked me all sorts of questions about the Shire as though he knows the land and its people intimately. I assured him that I left my country recovering and looking forward with confidence that, with the help of Gandalf and his friends, they would make it through the remaining winter months.

When I shared with Colbaran my plans, he naturally urged me to stay in Bree at least until spring. 'A young lass like yourself, all alone in the wilds' indeed! Though I retained my dignity, I made it quite clear that I have no intention of staying put, and if he hasn't anything worthwhile to share with me regarding the lands into which I plan to travel, then I shan't listen to another word. As you can imagine, he near fell over himself apologizing, as he'd hoped not to offend. Well, I ask you! Speaking to me as though I were addled! I certainly set him right on that score!

In the end, he drew a rough map, as you can see on the prior page*, that would see me at least to what he called the Last Bridge, which spans the Hoarwell far to the east. 'Be wary of the northern wilds along the river,' he warned grimly. 'The Hoarwell flows down through the Ettenmoors, and that land is plagued with Trolls and Orcs aplenty.'

Such advice as _that_, I will heed. Vagueries and assertions of my womanhood are of no interest; placing a recognizable name upon the threat speaks much more eloquently.

Which doesn't mean I will turn from my path. I shall simply be more mindful than I otherwise would have done. More than ever, I wish to learn of where my forebears came from. If the answer lies beyond the mountains, then that is where I shall go.

* * *

* Colbaran drew a rougher map than this, but basically this one shows the general area Petunia is talking about: tolkien gate way dot net (/) w (/) images (/) e (/) e3 (/) Mitheithel dot png

(Sorry about the spaces and parentheses – FFN won't let me post an actual link.)


	6. Chapter 6

_Prancing Pony, 20 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [10 February 2912 Third Age]_

I have decided that tomorrow will be my embarkation day. I've told no one else of my intent save Mr. Butterbur, lest some unsavory folk seek to accost me upon the road. Yes, dire warnings of ruffians and thieves have also been levvied, along with continued exhortations of 'young maid' and 'alone in the wilds,' heads shaking and well-meaning though misguided advice offered.

Perhaps not worthy of a 'pish tosh,' but certainly warranting a 'mind your own affairs.' I have never shrunk from delivering a well-deserved box to the ears, and I can peg a rabbit between the eyes with a stone at fifty paces. I am no helpless damsel.

I have settled up with the innkeeper and plan to rouse myself before dawn to take my leave come morning. This will likely be a challenge far more difficult to overcome than any I shall face, for I have become rather comfortable and lazy here these past few days. Good company, good ale, good cheer – I shall miss it.

My first stop, at which point I shall write again, will be Weathertop. I anticipate more difficulty in securing a warm shelter, and thus the desire to write, as these glowering clouds thicken and snow continues to fall. For now, to bed with me, or a secretive departure in the wee hours will not come off as planned.


	7. Chapter 7

_Weathertop, 23 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [13 February 2912 Third Age]_

Oh my, this wind! The howling of it is near as loud as those wolves that came across the Brandywine months ago. Here at the foot of Weathertop lies a sheltered dale, and that is where I have set my camp. My toes are warming by a small fire as I write. From the map Mr. Colbaran so graciously drew for me, I am certain not to see one speck of civilization between here and the mountains, for the land surrounding is quite barren. I have had to be clever in securing meals, preserving as much of my cold rations as possible in favor of foraged foodstuffs. How ever do plant-eating beasts survive in such conditions? Nearly all I've been able to scrounge from beneath a foot of snow and a layer of rotted leaves is nuts and cones, neither of which presents a savory meal. My little cookpot can make nothing of them.

I shall have to tighten my belt, I suppose, and be on constant watch for anything moving about. I've a pocket full of pitching stones ready should a fox or raven poke its nose out.


	8. Chapter 8

_East Road, 25 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [15 February 2912 Third Age]_

I can see in the far distance what must be the Last Bridge, though the fading light could be tricking my eyes. I begin to see the value of heeding the wise advice of those more experienced: this has been a very hard road. Perhaps it would be less difficult were it spring time, but I feel I've come too far to turn about and return to Bree. That would be too much like admitting defeat, and that I shan't do until my defeat is imminent. I still have strength, my way remains clear, my determination is undaunted.

Yet I would dearly love a bite of chicken and a few crisp potatoes at the moment.

What I have in my pot should not be sneered at, however. I'm certain I orphaned a few kits when I lobbed the stone that struck down this worthy coney. I suppose this is one of those laws of the wilds that Tom often nods sagely about. He has many of them, of course. Though he never ventured into the Old Forest, I like to think his avoidance is in respect of our parents' wishes, not his own fears of that dreadful place. He's a brave lad, is our Tom.

Tom's words, I believe, are, 'When you have to kill something to eat, you should appreciate every bite.' And so I shall.


	9. Chapter 9

_Last Bridge, 26 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [16 February 2912 Third Age]_

My eyes did not deceive me: I have reached the Last Bridge. The River Hoarwell flows sluggishly, and is partly covered by ice, but not completely. I am huddled beneath the bridge like some troll in a child's tale, begging payment for a crossing. There are thick forests on either side of the river; I shan't be without cover from this despiccable wind. My fire is blessed by the happenstance of a groundhog who poked his nose forth to test the weather. Alas that he now provides me strength to carry on. Dear me, I should be shamed for such cruelty! I suppose Tom would tell me 'tis the way of things.

I shall try to stretch the sustenance provided by this creature. When I venture forth on the morrow, I trust less furry provender may present itself.


	10. Chapter 10

_Some sort of cave, 28 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [18 February 2912 Third Age]_

Well, I have certainly landed myself in an incredible pickle! After tramping in a blinding snow for hours on end yesterday, the snow underfoot gave way and I tumbled down a rough tunnel, and what do you think I found at the bottom? Dear me, the last sort of creature I should ever wish to meet: _a_ _Warg_. Goodness me, if it weren't for her condition, I should likely be her next meal!

But the Warg was not the only resident of this little cave. In the back lay what I can only call a Goblin, for he is close to my own size. I have always fancied that Orcs are larger, like Big Folk. At the moment, this Goblin is of no concern. Well, he _is_ a concern, just not a danger.

Of course, when I rudely barged into their little den, the Warg bared her teeth and growled a warning. I was so stricken with fear I could scarcely move! Though she made to rise, she couldn't quite manage it. The poor dear's belly is so swollen and clearly painful, she doesn't want to move at all if she can help it.

Now, I did live on a farm, and I am quite accustomed to handling a whelping dog, even if the dog is as large as a pony. I spoke soothingly to her and assured her I meant no harm. Only then did I notice the heap of skin and bones piled in a corner.

I am sure most folk would slay the foul creature without a thought, but one look at that Goblin told me he was delirious with fever and in terribly poor shape. If he intended to care for the Warg in her time of need, then he couldn't have foreseen his own need very well.

My pack was well stocked for such emergencies, courtesy of my least favorite brother. I nearly giggled as I wrapped the poor smelly thing in Corbus's cloak. I think the Warg must have some sort of friendship with the Goblin, for she watched me closely and her growling got quieter as I saw to his warmth and comfort.

It's morning now, and nothing has changed. The Warg dam is quite miserable, and grumbles a good deal. I shall leave as soon as I finish this entry, for they both need food, and what I have left would barely be a mouthful for the giant beast. I've built up a nice little fire near the entrance, and made sure the Goblin is resting well. Perhaps I will gather some pine boughs and make a more comfortable bed for the Warg. Lying on the cold floor can't be good for her.


	11. Chapter 11

_Warg's Den, 29 Solmath 1312 Shire Reckoning [19 February 2912 Third Age]_

Luck was on my side yesterday, for I found a fox. A few stones to the head, followed by a sound rapping with my stick, brought the creature down. I feel awful, but 'twas necessary.

Thank goodness I was sensible enough to tie a scarf to a tree just outside the den, or I shouldn't have found it again in this forest!

The Warg is happily gnawing on the majority of the fox, while I continue to stew the portion I set aside for myself and the Goblin. In his present state, he doesn't even know I'm here, I'm afraid. He mutters on occasion, but says nothing comprehensible. 'Tis a blessing he can take in the broth I spoon into his mouth. I can't help pitying him; such devotion he must possess, to have braved the weather alone to care for his friend! I honestly never imagined his kind were capable of any sort of sentiment. I almost dread his awakening, for I may find I've misjudged the situation entirely.

Still, the dam is tolerant enough of me, and seems to growl far less than she did when I came. Her eyes follow me everywhere, though, and she won't let me near her unless I have food to offer. If only she would trust me to check her belly! Honestly, she should not be in so much pain. I fear her pups' coming: pain before whelping is never a good sign.

I've brought in a good many pine branches and laid them thickly near where she lies. I don't expect her to avail herself of it just yet: perhaps when the pups arrive and she can stand once more. The Goblin, however, rests well on his pine bed, wrapped warmly in Corbus's best cloak. I've even rolled up a pair of his trousers for a pillow. Once the Goblin is well, I think I may gently suggest he wear some of my brother's clothing; he is barely covered in a loose loincloth and ragged vest. Were he strutting about in such a state of undress, I should blush indeed!


	12. Chapter 12

_Warg's Den, 1 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [21 February 2912 Third Age]_

I am quite done in, but must record this momentous occasion. The pups are here! Though this is wonderful news, for now the Warg may rest in comfort on her pine bed and nurse her young, there is a touch of sadness to tell. The pain the poor dear suffered was from a stillborn pup trapped and unable to come forth. I daresay, had I not been here to assist, the dam and her unborn whelps would all have perished. As it was, drawing out the dead one was a difficult matter, for its head was too large. In all honesty, its mother's head is uncommon large as well, so it's no wonder.

I confess, given our desperate situation and the scarcity of food, I half expected her to eat the dead one. To my surprise, she merely nudged it away from her with her muzzle. Out of respect, I've moved it to a dim corner, and when I go out for another round of hunting, I shall take it with me and bury it.

The litter is small, which may be natural for a Warg. Only two pups, excluding the one that passed. They are rather the size of the hunting hounds our neighbors own, when they reach six months of age. And these are but half a day old! The darlings are quite blind and spend all their time nuzzling about their mum's teats. As soon as I get my breath, I shall have to fetch some more meat for her. It might be a day or two more before she has the strength to hunt on her own.

I confess relief that, though wary of me still, she has made no overtures toward resolving her hunger with a handy Hobbit lass!

As for the Goblin, little has changed. He seems a bit less hot to the touch, and quieter. His fever may be close to breaking. I've bathed his face with melted snow, and that seemed to refresh him a bit.

He is most strange to look upon, but perhaps that is because I've never been in company with one of his kind before. By the firelight, it seems his skin has a brownish cast, lessening the dark green underneath. His face is altogether strange: betwixt his large eyes, which I've not seen open fully since I arrived, lay his nostrils. Not even a proper nose, the poor thing. His mouth is, thankfully, small for his head, though full of sharp, jagged teeth. I must say, when his lips part to receive a spoonful of broth, I am compelled to suppress a fearful shudder!

The ears are a wonder, though. They are quite large and sharply pointed. His left ear bears several rings of the sort worn on fingers, split so they could be driven through his flesh, and his right is pierced through the fleshy tip with a narrow bone. He isn't quite bald: a bit of dark hair sprouts from the center of his head and gathers in an unkempt mess about his shoulders.

I wonder what he is called? For that matter, I should like a name for the Warg as well. There is an intelligence in the way she looks at me, regarding me thoughtfully, as it were. Perhaps the Goblin knows her tongue? I do hope he wakens soon.

Well, dinner will not make itself. I'm off to bring in some food for my charges. Oh, the dear pups are sleeping. Had their fill and nodded off. Bless them! I shall depart quietly; I think their dam is also in need of a nap.


	13. Chapter 13

_Warg's Den, 2 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [22 February 2912 Third Age]_

The dam has finally relented, and allows me close to her pups. They are a male and a female; the male seems quite taken with me. When he is not nursing, he seeks me out and curls up on my lap. So precious! His sister prefers snuggling up against mother's belly for warmth, even at the cost of a vigorous licking from her doting mum.

They aren't quite so weak and blind now; even after a day, they are finding their legs and toddling about. I suppose they must; not unlike ponies, in that respect. A pony colt that can't stand within hours of birth is cause for worry. I imagine a Warg would be doubly in need of leaving its vulnerable youth behind as quickly as may be.

I would say that they more resemble hunting hounds now that I'm able to see them fully. They have long, gangly legs and _very_ large paws. Their fur is thick but smooth, unlike their mother's. She looks quite rough, I'm afraid. Perhaps age makes the coat bristly? Apart from when I was wrestling her first unfortunate pup free, I haven't been close enough to touch her fur. She doesn't seem to mind her pups investigating me, though. I hope it isn't to teach them what a hearty meal smells like!

The Goblin is doing much better. I anticipate that very soon he will wa-


	14. Chapter 14

_Warg's Den, 3 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [23 February 2912 Third Age]_

His royal highness has awoken. If I seem sarcastic, there is a reason for it. A more unpleasant person I've scarcely had the misfortune to encounter! He quite puts Corbus to shame. And his _language!_ Good grief, I've not heard so much swearing in all my life! It seems every other word from his mouth begins with an 'f', and he is quite free with 's' and 'd' as well. He likely thinks to stretch his repertoire by incorporating foul-sounding words from his own tongue as well. Thankfully, I have no knowledge of his language, nor do I wish to acquire it.

'Tis a good thing he is too weak to move, for he threatened me with various abuses and uncomfortable-sounding inconveniences if I came near him. I allowed his tirade to go on until fatigue stilled his tongue, then I calmly informed him of just how long I'd been tending to him and his friend. He seemed quite taken aback. The Warg also gave him a stern glare. To my surprise, she _spoke!_ I nearly fell over in my shock! It was nothing I might recognize as a proper language, of course, but the Goblin seemed to understand it. I think she may have scolded him proper because he looked quite chagrinned.

Even as I jot down these thoughts, he's sitting up on the pine bower _I made for him_, wrapped in _my brother's cloak_, sipping coney stew _I cooked_ on the fire _I built_, complaining about the scritch-scratch of my pen. I have just given him a withering look and commented that he should get back to his stew if he ever hopes to make good on his threats. Until then, I shan't listen to his rantings.

Boorish as he may be, I have committed myself to be the provider here, and I shall provide. Once more into the bitter cold; I hope he comes to appreciate it one day.


	15. Chapter 15

_Warg's Den, 4 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [24 February 2912 Third Age]_

A veritable feast of plenty! I found a pair of fat groundhogs nosing about not a quarter mile from the den, and felled them handily. The Goblin, who has not seen fit to share his precious name with me, suggested I would likely be poisoning the meat, and poked at it suspiciously. I decided I'm done with his nonsense; I simply snatched the meat from his hands and gave it to the Warg. Let him howl all he wants now; I shan't lift another finger for his comfort until he learns some manners.

Now that I know the Warg has some grasp of language, I've asked her name. I'm not certain she understood me; what she said sounded like _googamug_. When I repeated what I thought she said, the Goblin laughed at me. Another withering look did not quell his humor, but a charred stick pitched across the den certainly gave him pause.

Now he's calling me a 'stinking Dwarf'! I ask you! How in the world could he mistake me for a _Dwarf_? Well, I shall have to school him on Hobbits, it seems. I'm sure I can find a willow switch of appropriate length and flexibility somewhere near.


	16. Chapter 16

_Warg's Den, 5 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [25 February 2912 Third Age]_

Continuing to ignore the Goblin. His latest diatribe is about cruel Dwarves starving their prisoners. I considered responding with the counterargument that I fed him well enough to recover from his illness while he was too delirious to function on his own. I imagine he'd have a crude response to _that_ as well.

I will also restrain myself from pointing out that he is in no way bound or otherwise restrained. The only reason he has not gotten up and walked out is because he refuses to do so. He huddles on his bed and watches me playing with the pups. Is he waiting for me to do him a mischief? I shouldn't wonder; of course he is. I'm sure that sort of thing is common among his folk, else he wouldn't go on about it so much. I've no idea how he was raised, but _I_ was taught to care for those less fortunate. He must have been schooled in being a belligerant little scamp. If any should be wary of mischief done upon their person, it should be _me_. Some of Gandalf's stories have included Goblins, and they are not known as proper gentlemen, if you catch my meaning.

The Warg, on the other hand, has been a perfect dear. Her kind have not been remembered well in the stories either, but at least she has not lived up to such frightful descriptions as I recall. I suppose, in point of fact, the Goblin hasn't either; he hasn't actually done anything beyond mutter and curse, eye me suspiciously, and bare his teeth in a threatening manner. Meanwhile, Googamug (near as I can guess at its spelling)* rumbles a bit, and sometimes in a hitching way that resembles chuckling. Usually when her son is staggering about on his wobbly legs, trying to coax his sister out of her warm nest. I am, I think, a tolerable second choice as playmate, but first on his list when seeking a bedfellow. I shan't discourage him from his preferences; he is a warm companion to lie beside.

I've noticed that he has a bent ear, or at least one that doesn't stand up as well as the other when he pricks them. It's quite adorable. Unlike their mother, the pups have very doglike faces, still bearing the youthful look of newborns. Googamug has a blocky head with large, sharp teeth that jut out her mouth in all directions. Quite off-putting, honestly. Even the Goblin's teeth aren't nearly as wildly placed or exposed (unless he chooses to show them, which is often). I suppose that makes her a frightful vision to behold, particularly when attacking. I hope never to see her do so.

Oh dear. Master Goblin has woken from his nap and is staring at me again. I have renewed my special look in response, the kind that mother always leveled at one of her boys when they refused to mind. At least my brothers knew to curb their behavior lest she roll up her sleeves and get after them with a rolling pin. Oh, if only I had mother's trusty weapon handy! But then, how would she keep Corbus in line? No, 'tis best that I establish my own...

I see. He seems to have gotten past his aversion to my cooking and has asked 'nicely' (by which I mean he did not call me a 'stinking' anything) if I might find something for him to eat. 'When I finish my writing,' I just told him haughtily. Honestly, does he think I will drop everything when he demands it? Perhaps if he treated me better, I might be less reluctant. We shall see. I must admit, he is still weak. He must have been ill for quite some time, or at least living quite rough before he took sick. I would ask how he and his friend came to be in this predicament, but he hasn't shown an inclination toward idle talk. Perhaps when...

It is difficult to ignore the Goblin when he begins _howling and throwing things_ like a child. Let me see what is in the larder; I secured a few extra beasts last night, thinking I might be able to rest today. _I am coming_, your lordship!

* * *

***** The Warg's name is actually Gûgamub. Please forgive Petunia not discerning the subtleties of Black Speech as spoken by a giant wolf. :)


	17. Chapter 17

_Warg's Den, 6 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [26 February 2912 Third Age]_

It has taken me nearly the entire day, with many failures and silences, but I have managed to worm the Goblin's name out of him, along with some details of his situation. He is called Narmibur. I asked if his name had some sort of meaning, and he snarled at me. Very well. In any case, he and his companion were part of a large group of Goblins and Wargs heading north to a Mount Gram, wherever that may be. Narmibur was quite evasive about why he and Googamug are _here_ instead of still with that group. I shall continue to pry on the morrow, I think. There is a line of worry across his brow, and he often glances at the Warg.

Setting that aside for the moment, Narmibur has at least consented to translate Googamug's words, for it seems she understands the common tongue well enough, she just can't speak it. Likely due to her mouth being shaped all wrong for such words. It felt as though her thanks to me for helping her when her companion was too ill to see to her, or himself for that matter, was as much for my benefit as for his.

Taking advantage of the situation, I eagerly urged Narmibur to inquire after the pups' names as well, and so learned that my favorite is called Klatekunurz. I have likely misspelled it*; their tongue is full of harsh sounds and guttural hacking and coughing. The female is named Krulgashanu, I believe.

I must say, once the first steps toward civility were taken, Narmibur seemed less hostile. Or Googamug's thinly veiled admonishments held more sway than anything I have done. Regardless, I at least feel a bit safer in his presence, particularly now that he is feeling stronger and is able to shuffle off to the corner which I designated as the necessary (it took quite some time to convince him that it was better for all concerned if he confined his relief to that spot, at least until the weather breaks and we may take such activities outside).

In the morning, I expect Googamug will venture forth and do some hunting; she seemed eager to stretch her legs after her convalescence. It pleases me that she trusts her pups alone with me. Well, me and the Goblin. I suppose she trusts him completely, but I am a relatively new figure in her world. Perhaps I have proven myself well enough in her estimation.

* * *

* Petunia's grasp of the transliteration of Black Speech is, bless her heart, poor at best. The names are:

Narmiburr  
Khlaatkunurz  
Krulghashanu


	18. Chapter 18

_Warg's Den, 7 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [27 February 2912 Third Age]_

Little by little, I'm dragging details out of Narmibur, and the latest bit was disturbing in the extreme. Goodness me, 'tis no wonder Goblins have such a foul reputation! Or I should say, their Orc masters. I had no idea it was possible to force any creature to enter its season, but that seems to be what the Orcs did with the female Wargs in their company. Narmibur isn't sure how they managed it either, but once the females were receptive, the males... Well, I shan't go any further. I will leave the nastier details to my Goblin friend, since he seems not to shy from using the most unsavory terms to describe the most natural things.

I thought such a measure was taken for practical reasons, such as to ensure there were enough Wargs to go round, for Narmibur also says the Goblins ride them into battle (which he described with additional sickening detail, seeming to relish the decapitations he'd administered from Googamug's back and the savaging she'd perpetrated upon his enemies - most of whom seemed to be Dwarves, though some of the Big Folk also ran afoul of his company from time to time. I begin to suspect he tells me these things to ensure I don't get _too_ comfortable around him, or dare to imagine him weak or worse, _kind_.).

Regardless, that wasn't why the Orcs demanded pups in the midst of the harshest winter they'd likely experienced for generations. No, they were ensuring that when game was scarce, and their band was struggling to feed the ranks, the Wargs would provide. I couldn't help myself: I gave little Klate a hug. I would have done the same for Krul, but she grumbled so, and burrowed more closely into her mother's side. Not a very affectionate pup, I have to say. Klate, meanwhile, gave me many kisses in return for my affectionate embrace.

Looking at Googamug, I feel terribly sorry for her, and must admire Narmibur even more. Undoubtedly, she and her companion chose rebellion rather than allow such a terrible fate to befall her young. Say what you like about his kind, and hers, but even those under the thumb of wicked masters have their own wills, and sometimes the strength to follow them.


	19. Chapter 19

_Warg's Den, 9 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [1 March 2912 Third Age]_

I've not been very successful convincing Narmibur I am not a Dwarf. He seems to think I am a rare smooth-faced one, as though a Dwarf woman is as bewhiskered as a man! What nonsense! But if true, my heart goes out to those poor women, plagued with the sorts of beards Gandalf bears, for such a thing strikes me as the worst possible thing to keep clean. Can you imagine? Every meal, bits and pieces left behind?

'Tis a rare thing, seeing a Hobbit with a beard. I'm not entirely sure our men can even grow them, and that is a rare blessing, according to my well-traveled companion. Narmibur insists, and I recall it myself from Bree, that Men are a scruffy lot, with bristly cheeks and rasping chins. Worse are the Dwarves, who take great pride in their whiskers, growing them to prodigious length and fullness, oft braided and contorted into bizarre arrangements. I confess, I should like to see some of these displays for myself, but Narmibur claims a Dwarf would have his head off in a trice if he were so foolish as to poke his nose into one of their holds.

Of course, he eyes me suspiciously when he says this, as though I have squirrelled away some manner of weapon capable of beheading him. I have but one blade I've used only for skinning and cutting meat; 'tis not long enough to remove anyone's appendage, nor am I strong enough to separate even one of his long fingers from his hand. He doesn't believe me, naturally, but I'm becoming accustomed to his wariness. At least when I sleep, he makes no move to slay me. I think, in spite of his bluster, he's as curious about me as I am about him. After all, neither of us appears to be living up to the stories we've heard of each other. Though Narmibur has a most wicked tongue, and swears far more than is strictly necessary, and more creatively than I've ever heard, he seems otherwise to be a decent fellow. Perhaps eventually he will come to believe that I am no Dwarf, but a Hobbit, and a Hobbit is not simply a hairless example of a Dwarf.

Ah, Googamug has brought us a fine catch! She must have had to travel far to find this deer, and bless her, she brought it back whole for all to share. She has begun urging her pups to partake of meat to supplement their nursing, and both have hearty appetites. I'd best leave off here if I want a decent portion; Narmibur is of the opinion that slow hands get less provender, so I must be quick. Ta!


	20. Chapter 20

_Warg's Den, 11 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [3 March 2912 Third Age]_

My father always said that the way to tell a man's heart was by watching how he treats his pony, and no truer words were spoken, though obviously in this case it applies to a Goblin and his Warg. I've gotten quite good at feigning sleep, at first just to see how Narmibur acts when he thinks I'm unaware. Yes, I confess to you, Dear Diary, that I do not entirely trust him. He is a Goblin, after all. Perhaps not as vicious as Gandalf's tales implied, but it would not do to let my guard _completely_ down in his presence.

But back to the matter at hand. Over the last couple of days, I have observed him out of plain curiosity, and found that he talks to Googamug in their awful language frequently. That he keeps his voice low is rather amusing, as though I might actually know what he's saying in that foul tongue. Either that or he doesn't want me thinking he's 'soft,' speaking with his Warg with the sort of tone a Hobbit uses with his favorite pony. I half expect to see him offering her a carrot as a treat! I'm not sure a Warg would see it as such, though. She'd likely give him a most withering look in response.

I've also noticed Narmibur's growing worry. As the pups get stronger, the line in his forehead deepens. I've tried asking after his concern, and he just brushes me off. Well, in truth, he tells me to mind my own business, though of course he uses his favorite word to describe the 'business' I should be minding. Such a wicked tongue, he has!

You realize, of course, that telling me to mind my affairs is the first step in encouraging me to stick my nose deeper into his. He really knows nothing of Hobbits, or women, for that matter.


	21. Chapter 21

_Warg's Den, 12 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [4 March 2912 Third Age]_

I caught Narmibur in a circular argument that led to certain revelations this morning. I'm taking advantage of his pouting to jot this down, but I must be brief. I finally looked ahead in my journal, and noted how few blank pages remain. I should not have been so verbose!

There I go again. Simply put, Narmibur is at wit's end of what to do. He and Googamug must hasten on to Mount Gram, yet he fears grave consequences resulting from their desertion. I reasoned that his decision to abandon his fellows was a just one, and enabled his companion to bear her pups in safety. I even grudgingly acknowledged that little Klate and Krul could now grow to join their mother as trusty mounts to some Goblins, which drew quite a startled look from him. I confess, I would be heart broken should anything befall Klate, and quite horrified to imagine him assailing anyone in the way Narmibur described. Yet I suppose it is their way.

Nevertheless, I'd been giving it a bit of thought in any case, and suggested they simply not go to Mount Gram, if the reception was not expected to be cordial. My new friend's response to that notion cannot be repeated, but I stuck to my argument. When he snottily inquired what else he might do, where else he might go, I offered him my own quest as an alternative. Dear me, he stared as though I'd grown a second head! I do believe, for once, he was left speechless. Yet I think the idea holds some appeal for him. He has, on occasion, mentioned the Misty Mountains in such a way that I suspect he longs to return there. Evidently this Mount Gram place is further north and west than he cares to go. I will continue sowing the seeds, then. He isn't _that_ unpleasant a fellow, once you get to know him. And of course, Googamug chides him like a mother. He shan't be a bother so long as I have her on my side.


	22. Chapter 22

_Warg's Den, 14 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [6 March 2912 Third Age]_

It has taken me two days, but I think Narmibur is finally convinced that I am not a Dwarf. He still isn't quite certain about Hobbits - he's not been west of the mountains and is unfamiliar with the Shire. He's heard of Bree-town, but who hasn't? Goodness, if the timid folk of Hobbiton know of it, I'm not surprised a Goblin who hasn't set foot beyond Weathertop is familiar with the name at least.

Surprisingly, it was Googamug who was best acquainted with the area about Bree-town. Perhaps not by name, but once Narmibur described it for her in their foul tongue, she recalled the place. By her accounting alone was he able to grudgingly accept that _perhaps_ my folk were not some figment of my delirious imagination. On the other hand, her encounters with Hobbits didn't sound very pleasant. At least, Narmibur conveyed that they weren't. I urged him to restrain his delight in describing just how unpleasant, and for once he demurred from the more graphic details.

Regardless, I am determined in my campaign to win his company on the remainder of my long trek. Not just because with him comes Googamug, and therefore her pups, but... well... he's grown on me somewhat. If I ignore most everything that comes out of his mouth, he is rather companionable, in his way. I've not written of it due to the frequency with which he exasperates me almost immediately after, but there are times when his conversation is quite educational. Can you believe that he has no notion of his siblings' whereabouts, or even how many he has? Nor does he care! I confess I described my many brothers to him, and he found my tales to be terribly strange. He actually asked why I hadn't slain Corbus a dozen times already! Well, I must say that is a touch extreme, and I told him so. He shrugged and replied that were Corbus to commit such rude pranks upon _him_, he would have avenged himself with a painful-sounding action that I dare not repeat. Narmibur even muttered that 'a girl like me oughtn't to be putting up with such nonsense.' Well, naturally his choice of words was far less gentle, but that was the gist.

I thanked him for the sentiment, of course, and he huffed as though he'd done something terrible, saying such things. I will do my best not to mention his 'slip' to anyone. Honestly, the way he postures, it is most amusing.


	23. Chapter 23

_Warg's Den, 17 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [9 March 2912 Third Age]_

It has been days since I wrote, I've been so busy. The days began to warm not long ago, and two days ago the rains began. We have been hard pressed in our little den to keep from drowning as the snowmelt flows down the sloping entrance into our midst. Narmibur and I have been hard at work, finding stones and rolling them to the entrance to form a barrier of sorts around the hole. We've filled the chinks with mud and rotted leaves; a truly messy business.

Though I am exhausted still, I felt compelled to write only because of something Narmibur said. Or asked, in point of fact. It was yesterday, and we were soaked to the skin in a heavy downpour. We'd carried a particularly large stone together and placed it well. As we paused to catch our breath, he looked at me most strangely and asked why I was doing all this. I didn't quite grasp his true meaning at first, and merely replied that it was necessary; if we did not build some sort of dam, we'd be flooded out of our hole in short order. He shook his head and clarified: why was I helping _them_? It seemed, by the worry lines on his broad forehead, that it was a question that had plagued him for quite some time.

Well, of course I told him the truth: he and Googamug were in dire straits in this den. I'd happened upon them by accident, but in retrospect it turned out to be quite a blessing. Googamug was spared a lingering, painful death, made worse knowing her unborn pups also suffered the same. And Narmibur himself was in too poor a shape to survive much longer without care either. It would have been terribly wicked of me to leave them to their fate. I simply could not do it.

He found this information difficult to digest, and told me with a hint of shame that he would have done just that: leave me to die, were our roles reversed. He believed me a Dwarf, you see, and recalled the animosity between his folk and theirs. But it would have been more a matter of survival, he insisted. Were a Dwarf to be nursed back to health by a Goblin... well, he expected his charge would turn on him as soon as his strength returned. I found this quite pitiable, that there was such hate between them that there was no room for compassion or trust. I reassured him once more that I am no Dwarf, and informed him that showing such ingratitude toward one who has helped you is quite unacceptable behavior.

Once again, Narmibur showed a tiny bit of shame at this statement. He didn't speak, but I gleaned from his sudden discomfort that he was recalling the hard time he gave me early in our association. I assumed he either wouldn't say anything, or found it difficult to do so, and told him that given the circumstances and the prejudices we both felt from the beginning, it was a testament to us as individuals that we'd managed to rise above it all for Googamug and her pups. Had we been at one another's throats every waking moment, I would not have been able to keep us all fed or help him regain his strength enough to help in the hunting, she would not have thrived enough to go forth and bring us game either, and it would have been a terrible situation for all concerned.

In the end, I declared that we should be admired for our restraint, and our broad-mindedness. He snorted at my lofty words and said 'it were just common sense, is all.' Well, in a nutshell, I suppose that was it indeed.


	24. Chapter 24

_Warg's Den, 18 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [10 March 2912 Third Age]_

I believe I have a suitor. This evening after our meal, on my blanket I found a very nice bit of bone of the sort the puppies gnaw upon as their first teeth are coming in. Of course when confronted, Klate ducked his head shyly and nudged my hand a bit. Googamug chuckled in her way, and even Narmibur raised an eyebrow. He told me this was the sort of thing a Warg might do to choose a rider, this friendly flirtation. It shows his trust and comfort in you. I must say, though the idea of sitting on him at the moment is rather off-putting - he is only the size of a calf, after all - I can't help feeling a trifle flattered by his attentions. To my surprise, Narmibur did not become belligerent as he has done in the past. It seems he doesn't mind as much as he did that one of the pups has taken a liking to me. I took advantage of the moment and once again asked if he might consider accompanying me over the mountains, and this time he didn't outright refuse. I believe he is thinking about it. I do hope he accepts my invitation.


	25. Chapter 25

_Warg's Den, 20 Rethe 1312 Shire Reckoning [12 March 2912 Third Age]_

I've only a brief moment, and very little space left in my journal to write, but it is quite important. Narmibur has agreed; he will accompany me across the mountains. Googamug had a smug look about her; I suspect she pushed him along in the proper direction, so I secretly thanked her. It would be a much harder road alone, I've found. The weather has broken a bit, and we are fairly confident that we may move on. Oh dear Diary, you have given so much! I am saddened that this is my last entry, and I fear that the journey will be too hard on you.

I have decided to leave my tale here in this cave, secured well against damage. Perhaps in time, someone may stumble upon it. I humbly ask: please, dear traveller, return my story to my family in the Shire. Though I am sure Corbus hasn't noticed my absence, I'm certain the rest of the family would like to know that I am safe. Yes indeed: safe with a Goblin and three Wargs. I do hope someone will inform Gandalf as well; he would be greatly surprised!

Oh dear, Narmibur grows impatient. He prefers traveling at night, and the moon is full. It shall be my first time riding upon the back of a Warg: I do hope I shan't fall off and embarrass myself! But my friends insisted, so I shall share with Narmibur and we shall fly beneath the moon's light, as Narmibur put it. He is quite poetic when he wishes to be.

Farewell, good Diary, and farewell, warm cave. You both have helped me more than you know.


	26. Chapter 26 - Epilogue

Faramir entered the study with some trepidation. It was a great favor he was about to ask, and one with its own consequences should they accept. The Steward looked them each over carefully: the Orc leaned over the table running his black-clawed finger slowly over maps spread out before him, planning their route, his lips moving over his jagged, rotted teeth as he muttered to himself; the Woman rested her head on her hand, elbow on the table, a large tome open under her nose, her own finger guiding her eyes line by line through legal proceedings and royal decrees dating back centuries.

Taking a deep breath to steel his resolve, Faramir cleared his throat. The sound echoed in the still, silent room.

Sheila raised her head, her tired eyes blinking as she gazed at Faramir questioningly. The Orc grunted, but otherwise paid the Steward no mind.

"Your pardons," Faramir began politely. "Madam, a word if you please?"

"Sure," she replied, pushing the chair back and approaching him. She yawned and roughly rubbed her face. "What's up?"

"My apologies for disturbing your study," he said with a slight bow and incline of the head.

"No trouble," Sheila replied through another yawn. "Sorry. What can I do for you?"

Glancing past her shoulder at the Orc, Faramir's brow furrowed. "I have a... delicate request. I was searching in the Hall of Records for any additional materials that might be of interest to you, and... I found this." He handed over the small embossed leather journal. Sheila's eyes narrowed as she accepted it.

"What's this?"

"It is a diary," he replied. "I believe it should be returned to the author's family, as was her wish. It is long past time her request was honored."

"'Her'?" the woman asked, her brow arching with amusement. "You read a lady's diary? Shame on you, Faramir."

"It does not contain anything of a personal nature," the Steward insisted, his cheeks coloring at her implication. "Well, it is a personal diary, but it was intended to be read by her family." Clearing his throat once again, he continued, "Your aim is to travel at least as far west as the Shire; perhaps you could locate her descendents?"

"Descendents? How old is this?"

"More than a century," Faramir informed her. "I've no idea how it came to be in our collection; her last recorded location was west of Imladris."

"That's a pretty huge distance for one little book to travel all by its lonesome," she observed.

"It may have been found by a Ranger or a trapper... anyone, really," Faramir shrugged. "There is no way to know how many times it changed hands before finding its way here."

Eying him shrewdly, Sheila tilted her head to the side. "What's the catch?"

His eyebrows shot up. "There is no catch. I simply ask a favor..."

"You're asking _me_, not us, and you're being really quiet about it," she interjected. "Something he shouldn't know about, or do you think he'd object?"

Faramir opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. Frowning, he said, "We both know his history. I would understand if you would prefer to... restrict your interactions to those in official capacities. I have no doubt they would be able to locate family members of those mentioned in these pages. You may not be called upon to interview any of the common folk."

"What's this crest?" she asked, smoothing her hand over the raised image.

"I suspect it may be the shield of an important family," he suggested, "though I was not of the impression that Hobbit folk were interested in such things. If I were to venture a guess, I would say it was likely associated with the Brandybucks. See the deer's antlers here?" He pointed to the branching prongs at the top of the crest.

Sheila nodded. "Could be. Well, I think the East Road will make sure we pass through Buckland first anyway, so it's a good place to start. It could be years before we make it all the way out there, though."

"It has waited this long," Faramir reasoned. "What are a few more years. Just... do be careful with it."

"I will make sure it gets there intact," she assured him sincerely. "And I'll find the family. I promise."

"Are you quite certain he will agree?" he asked cautiously.

"Leave him to me," she winked. Looking back over her shoulder, she called out in a falsely sweet, lilting tone, "Shagrat, darling! We have a mission!"

The Orc's head jerked up and he fixed her with a hostile scowl that made Faramir take a step back. "_Another_ one?" Shagrat barked harshly, his voice guttural and deep. "_Kul-izg ikhuz krampat ash krampum lorz, agh lat nargzab-izish krampat oshadhûr? Kramp-ta latobgur!_"

Sheila turned back to Faramir, a confidently radiant, somewhat smug grin on her face. "He'd love to."

* * *

**A/N:** And so endeth this little vignette! As with everything in my little world, this is just a small part of a much larger story. Or a couple of them. You just never know how many. ;)

**Translation:**

_Kul-izg ikhuz krampat ash krampum lorz, agh lat nargzab-izish krampat oshadhûr? Kramp-ta latobgur!_ = I am being forced to perform one stupid task, and you want me to do another? Do it yourself!


End file.
